


Say A Prayer

by lthrmth



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Frank Iero, Drugs, Killing, M/M, Murder, Murder-Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison Guard Gerard Way, Schizophrenia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lthrmth/pseuds/lthrmth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard Way is nothing more than a prison guard at Mountainview State Penitentiary. He's seen them come and go, all the same, but never had he questioned too much about the nature of his job. There were always a few oddities here and there, but the convicts were only getting what they deserved. In his mind, justice - that was what guarding greatly contributed to. But what if justice was the one thing his job greatly lacked? With the arrival of a new charge, he is suddenly forced to query his most cherished beliefs, whether he likes it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Something I came up with at 4 AM and wrote with zero proof-reading or editing whatsoever, and am actually planning to continue with. Here goes my first full-length fic.  
> Enjoy.

_Sitting at the end of the corridor, illuminated by only a flickering light bulb and occasionally the flashlight of one of our men, had been what many referred to as Sparky, or Bolt, or in rare cases, even the Baconator. We'd all made cracks about the power bill, how Warden Leto would cook his Thanksgiving dinner that very autumn, and we all sure either snickered or laughed a few times, all in unison, whenever such a joke was said. Even now, I can't help but chuckle when I recall the mornings when one of my old pals would yell, "Hey, what's cooking today?" and lick his lips to provide emphasis. Good moments they were, for inmates and guards alike._

_However, there's no denying that we - as human beings - tend to make fun of the things that frighten us, yet can't be gotten away from. We only managed to chortle at such gruesome matters for the sole purpose of coping with death and giving death away, and for the ones who actually had to sit down in that chair, the humor left the situation as quickly as it'd arrived. Over my time presiding execution after execution at Jersey's own Mountainview State Penitentiary, I've come to know that for most of those men, the truth finally hit all the way home when their legs were being clamped to Sparky's own. Came then was the realization that their own pair had alas reached the end of their careers. The muscles were still strong and the blood still ran in them, but they were finished, all the same; never will they go to walk another mile or dance with another girl (or man) at a local bar. Sparky's clients came to a knowledge of their deaths from the ankles up. All that was left was the black silk bag we pulled over their heads after they'd finished their rambling and mostly garbled last remarks, supposedly for them. It was really for us though, as I've always thought, to keep us from seeing the awful course of dismay in their eyes as they died with their knees bent._

_But, just how in the world do I know this, you may ask?_

_Well, I worked in death row. For years, I was faced with six cells, all bland and grey, and occupied by the most dangerous set of criminals. From what I know (I can't be certain if there had been any alterations since my departure), there were three cells on each side of a wide center aisle, each almost twice as big as the cells in the other four blocks. Singles, too. But, no matter how great of an accommodation I personally found them to be, the inmates would've much rather traded for cells in any of the other four. And trust me, they would have traded at any chance they got._

_Never a time during my years as a prison guard were all six cells were occupied at one time, and boy, do I thank God for it. Four was the most, and that itself already had been like quicksand to me. It almost swallowed me whole, I tell you - who knows how I managed to make it through that entire year and a half - so when you're face to face with colleagues who can't care any less than the charges do, and charges that just care too much, it dramatically worsens. I don't think anyone could've accepted that, though with a job like mine, acceptance was key; trying to steer clear and stay clean really wasn't worth it since there was no fool-proof way of avoiding havoc, skirmishes, chaos, coming to blows. There were times when the air in there was so tight that I believed I was going to suffocate my way to death. There were times where I found myself breaking a few noses and breaking a few rules. There were times when the only thing 'honesty' cut was someone's life short. It all lies in the book, and I guess this is why I'm bothering to write one._

_The wide corridor up the center of death row was floored with linoleum the color of albino mice. It ran approximately sixty long paces from south to north, bottom to top. At the bottom was the restraint room. At the very top was a T-junction. A left turn was equivalent to life - if you called what went on in the exercise yard life, as many did. Thieves and arsonists and sex criminals, all talking their talk, walking their walk, and making a last attempt to complete the little deals with whoever it was that they believed in._

_A right turn, now - that was different. First, you went into my office and crossed in front of my desk, flanked by the American flag and the state flag. On the far side were two other doors: one led into the small W.C. that I and the others used; the other opened on a storage shed of some sort. That was where you ended up if you were destined to walk the line._

_To the left side of the storage shed was what you could interpret - again - as life. Tools lined the walls, dry goods and sacks of seeds for spring planting in the prison gardens lay on the floor, boxes of toilet paper - it was a mini Bulk Barn, almost, minus the bargains and the Swedish Fish._

_On the right - again - was death. Head down three cement steps, and you'd find Bolt resting up on a platform at the corner of the store room; stout walnut legs, broad walnut arms that had so eerily welcomed the petrified sweat of convicts in the last few minutes of their lives, and the metal cap, hung exuberantly on the back of the chair like a robot's cap from a Sunday comic strip. A cord ran from it and through a hole in the brick wall beneath the platform. A tin bucket was off to one side with a sponge swimming inside it, trimmed to fit the cap. Before the execution, it was moistened with saline to better conduct the charge of direct-current electricity that ran through the wire, through the sponge, and into the criminal's brain. But hey, enough about Sparky - I think she's had a good deal of attention for now, hasn't she? - and instead, let's hop on to something a bit more intriguing. Something that has bitterly left me hanging on a thread ever since._

_For a majority of my time on the line, I don't believe I ever felt the need to query the nature of my occupation. It was simple; you give the condemned what they deserve, and everything evens out. We all knew that it was only the foundation of justice, and with it at the front of our minds whilst we worked, our contribution [to justice] stood strongly. Had I not had the luck to come to realistic terms with it, it would still not be wavering today. Thankful or upset, I don't know how to feel. Partially because a large part of me says that realization was for the best, I guess how I came down to it is by far more surprising. And believe me, it's quite a long, long story to tell._

\---

Christmas Eve was the day Iero arrived. It was an odd day of the year to receive a new inmate, even odder to be spending your day the same way you do on weekdays, but oddities were anything but unusual in such a dreadful place. If someone were to sprout a second head on their shoulder, no one would be surprised enough to bat an eye. Presumably, that was why it was Gabriel Saporta, a fellow guard on the same shift as I had, that had been sent to usher him onto death row. We all knew Saporta wasn't suited for the job - you could get him a pair of trousers tailored two sizes too small and he'd suit that better - but yet he was lugging relentlessly at the boy's handcuffs and was beaming brighter than the sun possibly could've when he came, especially during that time of year.

"Gerard," he called, skipping down the hallway. "We've got someone new!"

"Great. Adds on to the damnation we've got 'round here," I said and frowned, almost mechanically. Many people in the world can hide their emotions so well that it seems as if they have none at all, but sadly, I was not one of them. Instead, my feelings appear smack on the face, automatically and without consent. 

"C'mon," he gibed. "We haven't gotten a new prisoner in months!" 

"Yeah, and I was hoping it'd stay that way," I muttered, stepping aside so Saporta could lead the kid in. I'd been standing in front of the cell that would soon be occupied by the new prisoner, and Saporta, not giving half a rat's arse when it came to caring, shoved the inmate inside where he belonged. The force was unexpected and sent him staggering a bit, but he regained his balance in time to not go flying towards the floor. With that, he perched himself up upon the bed, pulled his knees towards him, and rested his head on his arms. 

Grabbing the clipboard Gabe had left for me, I studied both him and his forms with great interest. The first thing I did was look him up and down to register his height (mhm, definitely five foot six), as well as his weight, which had been given as a hundred-fifteen. I also gave his profile a quick skim-over, and noted that his case was nothing too special; the name was Frank Anthony Iero Jr., aged nineteen, charged with first degree murder, perjury, a few others; the works. And beneath the space for scars and identifying marks, one word had been blocked out in the laborious printing of the warden, the old trusty in registration: numerous.

In comparison to all of those that have arrived onto my section of the prison, he was rather peculiar. He was skinny and pale and frail; the things he was given just didn't seem to fit; the blue slacks had been rolled up to fit, the jacket kept falling off his shoulder, even the handcuffs look as if they were about to slip off his hands on their own. It was a simple equation from there on: no handcuffs = prisoner escapes = lost job for a particular guard = no money. That was worse than the fear of a serial killer or sadist on the lose, for some. But he wasn't going to do anything like that, and I was sure of it. It wasn't too common, of course, gaining that kind of knowledge from a first glance at someone who was staring the death penalty straight in the eye, but I just knew and was too stubborn to be told otherwise. You can call me crazy, stupid, the world's second biggest idiot since George Bush is first (unless you're cruel enough to say I have outdone him) - I'll even admit that a few years of working in state prisons can drive you a little nuts! Though, I can only tell you that I truly, a hundred percent believed he was lost. Once he entered his cell, he just kept looking around as if to make out where he was. Maybe even who he was. It stroke a chord, y'know, so strange and unfamiliar, and things just seem to came together when his eyes suddenly shifted their gaze from the floor to me. 

Like a deer caught in headlights, I was rattled from the inside out. The glimpse lasted for merely a second before he was focused on something new, but the second when our eyes locked was enough for me to beg for a second look. Foolery is what it all looks to be, I understand, and it wasn't like I could've gotten him to snap his attention back to me, anyway. By then, he begun studying all the things that laid behind the bars, like a man on a mission, despite that there wasn't much to analyze. Mindlessly, I started pondering how long it would take until he went insane from doing so, and the prison layout's great resemblance to a mental institution wasn't much help there. Gabe's abrupt absence from the room, however, was wonderful assistance. I had a clue as to where he disappeared to (he had an enfeebling habit of clicking his heels like Dorothy all the way down to the storage room to do what he referred to as 'retrieving supplies' [and what I called 'laziness and 'slacking off']), but didn't bother chasing after him. Alternatively, I'd taken it as a chance to walk up to Iero, prepared to do what I had to get done.

"Am I going to have any issues with you?" I asked.

He shook his head slowly - once to the left, once to the right, then back to the center - and he was right about that. I wasn't going to have any issues with him, not so soon, not with Gabriel having 'problematic' written in such bold font on his forehead. Saporta was the larger deal, I reckoned. So goddamn large that I could just taste the tang of trouble on the tip of my tongue when his voice rang through the block, yelling "Oh, what a bore!" at the two of us. No, scratch that - not at _'us._ ' it wasn't meant to be directed at me. Although he at last decided it was time to get out of what hole he climbed inside of, he'd taken his hickory baton along with him, and the purpose behind it was obvious. Tapping it against one palm, the same way a man does when he has a toy he wants to use, he contemptuously smiled. "We've got a dumb one this time!" he added, and I think that's enough for you to conclude who that statement was for.

Perhaps he was trying to put in a little joke (one of crude essence), trying to make an old fart like me laugh, but I wasn't the least bit amused. As a prison guard, you're awarded with a fair amount of credibility, but don't seem to get much respect - in this case, from coworkers a couple of legs beneath you. Still, the only person who didn't get any of either was Gabe himself, and it's quite ironic, really. Being the governor's nephew, you'd think he'd be looked up to from all possible angles, but his colleagues weren't ones to take in much shit. No matter how patient I can be, he was the sort of person that deprived you from all the stoicism you managed to store up over the years. And suddenly, I just couldn't stand to have him there. Maybe it was the unseasonable cold, maybe it was the amount of gel he overused that day, maybe it was all of those things. Whatever it was, I stopped giving a hoot about his political connections.

"Gabe." I was trying my hardest to bottle up my anger. "The rest of the guys are moving house over in the infirmary."

"And?" A sneering Saporta titled his nose upwards and away from me. "Ray's in charge of that detail - "

"I know he is," I snapped. "Go and help him."

"That isn't my job," said Saporta. "This big goon is my job." 'Goon' was his special name saved for the big ones, and I think he just thought it was hilarious in this case since Iero was shorter than he was. He felt resentment towards the convicts who were taller than him - "that large build could've been put up for better use; I'd swap if I could and become a goddamn basketball player," as he once said -  yet pitied those who couldn't match up to his 6.4 feet. Gabe was also what people call a banty-rooster sort of guy, the kind that likes to pick fights, especially when the odds are all their way. And vain about his hair, too, if I didn't mention that already. Could hardly keep his hands off it.

"Then your job is done." My voice was stern. "Get your butt over to the infirmary."

His lower lip pooched out. Ray Toro and his men were moving boxes and stacks of sheets, even the beds; the whole infirmary was going to a new frame building over on the west side of the prison. Hot work, heavy lifting. Gabe Saporta and his pansy ass wanted no part of either.

"They got all the men they need," he whined. 

"Then get over there and straw-boss." I raised my voice, knowing precisely what my actions could've led to, yet I paid no attention. If the governor ordered the warden to fire me for ruffling the wrong set of feathers, who was going to be put in my place? Gabe? It was a joke. "I really don't care what you do, as long as you get out of here."

For a moment I thought he was going to stick and there'd be real difficulties, with Iero sitting there the whole time like a stopped clock. Then, he groaned and went stalking up the hall, pouting his entire heart out. I don't remember which guard was sitting at the duty desk that day - one of the floaters, probably - but Saporta mustn't have liked the way he looked, because he growled, "You wipe that smirk off your face or I'll wipe it off for you" as he went by. There was a rattle of keys, a momentary blast of cold wind from the exercise yard, and he was gone, at least for the time being.

I reverted my attention to the boy.

"If I take those chains off you, are you going to be nice?"

He nodded. It was like his head-shake: down, up, back to square one. There was a kind of peace in his eyes, but not a kind I was sure I could trust. Regardless, I crooked a finger to the floater, who came in and unlocked the chains. 

Taking a deep breath, I settled myself for the little set speech I have and make to people new on the block. I hesitated with Iero for a minute or two, because he seemed seemed so abnormal. There's always a few loose ends that wash up here and there, but what was so concerning was that he didn't seem to be there _,_ even though he physically was in my presence.

When the guard stood back (Frank had remained motionless during the entire unlocking ceremony, as placid as a Percheron), I looked up at my new charge, tapping on the clipboard with my thumb, and said: "Can you talk?" If he couldn't, then Saporta would've cashed in on his pride.

Luckily, he nodded. "Y-yes, sir," he mumbled, voice raspy and soft, like he'd just come down with a terrible cold from the weather we've been getting. He sounded educated - a bit overly educated for what he'd been reported as, a dropout, as I later found out - but he also lacked great professionalism. In his speech as in so many other things, he was a mystery, and it was his eyes that continued to bother me most. It was like he was floating far, far away as we spoke.

"Your name is Frank Iero," I said. 

"Yes, I - um, no, not really."

I raised an eyebrow. "No? Then what is it?"

"I - Iero," he confirmed. " _Eye-ear-oh_." I'd completely butchered his surname. 

"Alright, alright. So you can spell, can you? Read and write?"

"Yes, sir," he said.

I jotted that down before concluding I would then give him a short version of my set speech. I already decided he wasn't going to cause any fuss, and in that, I was both right and wrong.

"My name is Gerard Way," I told him. "I'm the super. If you want something, ask for me by name. If I'm not here, ask the other men. Or, more specifically, you ask for Mr. Collins or Mr. Toro. Got it?"

He returned back to his nodding.

"Don't expect to get what you want unless we decide it's what you actually need, though. This isn't a hotel, remember. Still with me?"

He nodded again.

"This is a quiet place. It's not like the rest of the prison, and right now, it's just you and Bryarover there." I gestured towards the fifth cell, housing a blonde man convicted of murdering his girlfriend after a heated argument. Currently, he was dozing away. Iero didn't get to know the details. "You won't work; mostly you'll just sit. Gives you a chance to think things over." Too much time for most of them, but I didn't say that. "Sometimes, we play the radio, if all's in order. You like the radio?"

Doubtfully, as if he wasn't sure what the radio was, he nodded.

"If you behave, you'll eat on time, you'll never see the solitary cell down at the far end, or have to wear one of those button-up-the-back canvas coats. You'll have two hours in the yard afternoons from four until six, except on Saturdays when the rest of the prison population has their football games. You'll have your visitors on Sunday afternoons, if you have someone who wants to visit you. Do you, Iero?"

He shook his head. "No." 

"Well, your lawyer, then."

"He won't be able to find his way up here." 

At first I thought he might've been kidding or some sort, but looking closely, he didn't seem to be. It's not like I'd expected any different. Appeals weren't for the likes of such a troubled youth, not back then; they had their day in court and the world forgot them until they saw a squib in the paper saying a certain fellow had taken a little electricity along about midnight. But someone without even friends to look forward to on Sunday afternoons made control look to be a problem. Here it didn't, and I suppose that was good, since he was so damned mystifying.

He shifted a little on the bunk and I backed away respectfully. Clasping my hands, I told him, "Whether your time here is easy or not depends on you. You might as well make it easy on all of us, since it ends the same. You'll be treated as as good as you deserve; no more, no less. Do you have any questions?"

"How many watts are the lights around here?" Iero asked right away, as if he'd only been waiting for the chance.

I blinked, and it'd gone so far as to make that floater blink, too. A lot of odd questions I've been asked by newcomers - once about the size of my wife's tits, in which I couldn't help but respond with the fact that I was as single as I'd ever be - but never that one.

He looked up at me for the first time during our conversation, and immediately yet unwillingly began elaborating. "I - I - it's because it's just so bright, and I - I'm not really used to it," he explained. I had to strain myself to hear him. "I've always slept with the darkness, and it's a lot more comforting."

Looking at him - the pure size of him - I felt strangely touched. They did touch you, you know; you didn't see them at their worst, hammering out their horrors like demons at a forge.

"Sorry, that's out of my limits." I gave him a little shrug. "But I can say it's brightly lit in here all night long, and half the lights along the line burn from nine 'till five every morning." Then I realized he wouldn't have any idea of what I was talking about - he didn't know what the hell the goddamn 'line' was - and so I pointed. "In other words, the corridor."

Disappointed, he nodded, and I offered him my hand. Never in my life had I done such a thing with a jailbird, and even now, I'm not sure why. Him asking about the lights, maybe, and soon, his empty, echoey footsteps came into notice. He'd gotten up from his seat and walked over to me, head down, and had taken my hand with a trembling kind of gentleness. They were ice cold and wouldn't stop shaking, even after disappearing into mine, but that was all of it. I had a moth in my killing bottle. We were done.

I backed away and into my office. Iero stood where he was a minute or two longer, as if he didn't know what to do next, then sat back down on his bunk. There, he clasped his hands between his knees, lowered his head like a man who grieves or prays, and said something then. Somehow, I managed to have heard it with perfect clarity, and in spite of not knowing much about what he'd done then - you don't need to know about what a man's done in order to feed him and groom him until it's time for him to pay off what he owes - it still give me a chill.

"I tried to stop, but it was too late," he said. "It was too late."


	2. Chapter 2

The clock struck two in the afternoon. I knew because it always made an annoying little ding-a-ling sound at every passing hour, and I, that day especially, had been counting them. So far, it'd been an hour and a half since Iero had arrived, an hour and thirteen minutes since Gabe was out of my sight, and two hours since Ray Toro and his men begun the hospital relocation. He was sweating alright, and I figured I'd bring him and them a couple of towels. I was no good at playing househusband, but it was better than watching Iero sitting there and staring into blank space. It was driving me bonkers, and I needed to get out of there. Needed an excuse for it, too.

When I arrived on the second floor, Ray just finished loading the last box of bedding. I distributed the towels, and he and I walked back up the hall and into my office. Misha Collins, sort of my third in command - we didn't actually have such things, but he liked to believe it - was sitting behind my desk updating the files, a job I never seemed to get around to. He barely looked up as we came in.

"You're going to have some trouble with Gabe," Ray said.

"I've been having trouble with him since his first day here," I replied gingerly. "Did you hear what he shouted when Iero was brought in?"

"Couldn't have missed it." 

"I was in the john and heard it just fine," Misha chimed in, drawing a sheet of paper to him. He held it up into the light so that I could see there was a tea-ring and typing on it, then tossed it over his shoulder and into the waste basket. "I bet he stole that line out of those crime films he's always seeing, or from a book, yeah. _How to Sound Awfully Cheery When Having A Thorn Up Your Dick,_ it's called." 

"Oh, I know, but that's the only time he's cheery," I said. "Suppose it's better that than puffing up like a crow all day."

He snickered at this, but I think on the inside, we all knew that it was true. Gabe Saporta was the kind of person that seemed to be able to only look two ways, and we saw him change from one look to the other all the time. His mood would rise and fall depending on which way the wind was blowing, that's for sure, but a crow, and cheery (falsely cheery, I guess), nonetheless. I remember he'd came just after we did Pedro DeLau, the hatchet-killer - he hadn't actually participated in an execution yet, though he'd witnessed that first one from the switch-room. It was a blown-out crow stance, I'll tell you that.

To sort of laugh all we wanted about Saporta being nothing more than your typical prig, it was something that kept us guards going. It's probably just as rude as it may sound - and I understand that we in no way get excepted from our bad deed - but when you're faced with prisoners mourning and sobbing half the time, it's pretty easy to find comedy in the most unnecessary bundle of things. And, as nice as it was to roll with the punches and chuckle at a snide remark or two, the hilarity of it would immediately be lost once we were reminded that the particular crow was connected. I'd have to answer for sending him off, and I'd have to answer even harder for expecting him to do some real work. Ray understood it the best out of the three of us. God damn it, he was the one that told me in the first place.

Still, expecting was the last thing I'd planned on doing, and God knows I meant it. I was sick of putting up expectations and becoming just as discouraged every time, though that surely didn't stop me from hoping a good bit here and there. Gerard Arthur Way wasn't the sort to let others stand around and do the heavy looking-on.

"Anyway, I'm more interested in the new kid, for the time being," I said, fed up with the slightest mentioning of Saporta for the day. "Are we going to have problems with him, you think?"

Collins shook his head with decision. "He was silent the entire time at court. Must've done some pretty bad shit to land in here, and it's a shame. Pretty young for death row, ain't he?

"He is," I agreed. "Only nineteen."

Misha made a whistling sound. "Jeepers." 

"Do either of you know where he came from before he showed up here?" I walked around to the other side of the desk. "It was Essex County, wasn't it?"

"Yep." Ray grinned. "He's always been there - been there until the day he did what he did, but no one seems to know much about him. I guess he just drifted. Go up to prison library and prowl around, if you're really interested. You might be able to find out a little more from the papers; they won't be moving those until next week." 

"I'll go have a look," I said, and later on that afternoon, I did.

The prison library was in the back of the building that was going to become the prison auto shop - at least that was the plan. More pork in someone's pocket was what I thought, but I kept my opinions to myself - the way I should've kept my mouth shut about Saporta, but sometimes people just can't keep it clapped tight. A man's mouth gets him in more trouble than his pecker ever could, and besides, the prison moved fifty miles down the road the next spring. More backroom deals, I reckon, with a side of extra pork barrels. 

Meanwhile, administration had gone to a new building on the east side of the yard; the infirmary was being moved (whose idea it had been to put an infirmary on the second floor was just another one of life's many unsolved mysteries); the library was still partly stocked - not that it ever had much in it - and standing empty. The old building was a hot clapboard box kind of shouldered in between things. Their bathrooms backed up on it and the whole building was always swimming with this vague pissy smell, which was probably the only good reason for the move. The library was L-shaped, and not much bigger than my office. I looked for a heater, but they were all gone. It must have cold enough for the mammoths.

One other fellow was there - Joe Trohman, in charge of handling the prison food and the visitors' list on Sundays -  was dozing away in the corner with a Hopalong Cassidy novel in his lap and his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. The heat wasn't bothering him; he seemed to be immune to heat, the only thing he was ever immune to, you could say. I didn't bother him, even though that meant that we'd be serving dinner late again (the warden wasn't going to be happy, to hell with it), and instead went around to the short side of the L where the newspapers were stored. I thought they might have been gone along with the heaters, but in my luck, they weren't. However, I wasn't lucky enough to be able to stoke out the business about Iero; not all of it at least, but surely, it was still enough for me to conclude that he deserved that seat on Sparky's lap. _And he deserved it, big time._


	3. Chapter 3

With one eye open and the other still groggy with sleep, I entered the block. It was six forty-five in the morning, and I had been tossing and turning the previous night. Having nothing but nightmare after an another, I was kept awake long before I could hit the sack, yet even with my lack of Z's, the first thing I immediately noticed upon my arrival to the office was the ugly green memo slip on my desk, asking me to stop by the warden's office as soon as I could. I knew just what that was about - there were unwritten but very important rules to the game, and I'd stopped playing by them for awhile yesterday - and so, I put it off as long as possible. I've always thought this "get-it-over-with" business was overrated anyway and have gotten better at it over the years, more's the pity.

I took my time stripping off my coat and hanging it, and turned on the heater - it was another brutally cold one. Then, I sat down and went over Ray Toro's night-sheet. There was nothing there to get too alarmed about. Bob had wept briefly after turning in - he did most nights, and probably more for himself than for the folks he'd roasted alive - and had taken the rest of the day sleeping like a dead log on his bunk. There was a brief note about Iero, too: ' _Laid awake, mostly quiet. I tried to get some talk started, but after no replies from Iero, gave up. Misha may have better luck._ '

'Getting the talk started' was at the center of our job. I didn't know it then, but looking back from the vantage point of this strange age (I think all ages seem strange to those who endured them), I understand that it was, and why I didn't see it then - it was too big, as central to our work as our respiration was to our lives. It wasn't important that the floaters be good at 'getting the talk started,' but it was definitely vital for Misha, Ray, and I, and it was one reason why Gabriel Saporta was such a disaster. The inmates disliked him, the guards disliked him; everyone disliked him, presumably, except for his political connections, Gabe himself, and his mother. He was the one rotten egg in the egg crate, and I knew he spelled catastrophe from the very start. As for the rest of us, we would have scoffed at the idea that we functioned most effectively not as prison guards but as their psychiatrists. To this day, a part of me still wants to scoff at that idea - but we knew about getting the talk started, and without the talk, men facing Sparky had a few nasty habits that I'd rather not mention.

I made a note at the bottom of Ray's report to talk to Frank sometime later - to try, at least - and then passed on to a note from Simon Weller, the warden's chief assistant. It said that he, Howard, expected a DOE order for Bob Brayer (Weller's misspelling; the man's name was actually Bob Bryar) soon. DOE stood for date of execution, and according to the note, Simon had been told on good authority that Bob would meet his end in early February. His best estimate was a week before Valentine's, and his guesses were always very informed (and badly spelled, too, but that's not the point). But before then, we were to expect a new resident, name of Bert McCracken. ' _He's what you might call an issue, the arsenic on a wedding cake_ ,' Weller had written in his back-slanting and all-caps script. ' _Crazy-wild and proud of it. Has tramped all over the state for the last year or so, and has hit the big time at last. Killed three people by gunshot, one a pregnant woman, killed a fourth (street walker) and fifth (state patrolman) in the getaway_.' My stomach twisted a bit a that. ' _McCracken is twenty-two years old, has roses inked on lower right leg, et cetera. You will probably have to screech out a lung or even both at him, but when you do it, remember: this man just doesn't care_.' He underlined this last sentiment twice to prove his seriousness, then finished: ' _And, he may be a hang-arounder. Working appeals_.'

The crazy kind, working appeals, apt to be around for awhile. Didn't that all sound lovely? Suddenly the day seemed hotter than Satan's armpit, and I could no longer put off seeing the warden.

I worked for three wardens during my years as a guard; Jared Leto was the last and best of them. Honest, blunt, lacking even Weller's wit, but equipped with a sufficing amount of sagacity and integrity to keep his job and him from getting whipped by the game. For sure, he wouldn't rise any higher, but he was content with his position. The year before when a prisoner had rushed him in the exercise yard with a crowbar from the shack, Leto had grabbed the guy's wrist and twisted it. Ray and I were called in to bring him down to the infirmary, where he stayed for a week. On the other hand - that's a pun, son - Jared was called in for a talk with one of those political hounds. I figure it had something to do with how ruthlessly he handled the situation, and his salary alongside it, too.

When I walked into his office that day, we'd immediately gotten down to business. There was no time-wasting handshake or friendly little greeting questioning how your day went. He outright said, "Let's talk about Gabriel Saporta, shall we?" and with a grunt from me, we begun the conversation.

"I had a call from the state capital this morning," he told me. "It was an angry call, something I'm sure you can imagine."

"You don't have to trace this out for me," I snapped. It was unintentional and had shocked me, but I was getting upset enough to not be bothered. "The governor only has one child, that child happens to be Saporta, and that very child called his dad last night. In short, Gabe squealed, and his dad came to aid."

"You got it. I think you can see where it goes from here." 

"But you know what happened between Gabe and Bryar when he came in?" I asked.

He covered his eyes and groaned. "Yes, but - "

"And you know how he thinks it's five star entertainment to run that little baton of his along the bars? Look, I don't know how much longer I can take him and his foolishness."

We'd known each other for three years. That can be a long time for people who get on well, especially when part of the job is trading life for death. What I'm saying is that he understood what I meant. Not that I would resign. Better men than me were out on the roads or riding the rods. I was lucky and knew it, and you never know when your luck runs dry. It wouldn't be logical for you to walk off a steady paycheck job like mine, and definitely not in cold blood. But, my blood wasn't cold that winter, the temperatures outside were unreasonable, and when you find yourself stuck in that kind of rut, why, sometimes your fist will fly out pretty much of its own accord. And if you slug a connected man like Gabe Saporta once, you might as well just go right on slugging, because there's no going back.

However, Jared's theory was slightly different from mine. He furrowed his eyebrows and told me that I should stick with it.

"That's what I called you in here to say," he said, shaking his head at me as if he expected no more and no better. "I have it on good authority - the person who called me this morning - that Gabe has an application in at the Uni, and that his application will be accepted."

"Uni? You don't mean the University?" That was one of the few state-run hospitals. "What's he doing?"

"It's an administration job. Better pay, papers to push instead of hospital beds in the heat of the day." He gave me a slanted grin. "You know, Gerard, you might be shed of him already if you hadn't put him in the switch-room when DeLau walked the line." For a moment, what he said seemed so peculiar that I didn't have a clue of what he was getting at. Maybe I didn't want to have a clue.

"Where else would I put him? He hardly knows what he's doing. To make him part of the active execution team - " I didn't finish. Couldn't finish. The potential for screw-ups seemed endless.

"Well, you'd do well to put him out for Bryar. If you want to get rid of him, that is."

I looked at him with my jaw hung. At least I was able to get it up where it belonged so I could talk. "What? He wants to experience one right up close?"

He nodded. "I can't see why he wants that so bad, but that's all he wants."

It was unbelievable. Already, I was beating out a nervous rhythm on my thighs. "Look, he's bound to fuck up. Almost incapable of not fucking up," I said. "And with thirty or so witnesses, reporters all the way from Chicago -"

"You and Ray will make sure he doesn't," Leto answered, voice gravelly. His eyes, so warm when he'd greeted me, now looked grim. "And if he does, it goes on his record, and it'll be there long after his statehouse connections are gone. He may try to push it and stay for Iero, too, but chances are, he'll be happy with what he gets from this one. Just make sure you put him out. Think of it as doing not only you, but your pals and I a favor."

I took a little bit of time to weigh out the odds, and before I knew it, I agreed. I had the sense to know it was a gamble I was taking, but hell, for all I knew, if it would get rid of Gabriel Saporta, I'd fucking tweak the devil's nose. He could take part in his execution, let him have his thrill, if that's what he really wanted. Let him go on to Uni, where he would have his own office and a personal heater and a fan. And if his dad was voted out of office in the next election and he had to find out what work was like in the real world where not all the bad guys were locked behind bars and sometimes you got your own head in the gutter, so be it.

I stood up. "Okay. I'll put him out front, and in the meantime, I'll keep the peace."

"Good," he said and stood up himself, seeing me to the door. "Also, what about Frank, by the way? Is he going to be a problem, you think?"

"Iero?" I shook my head. "So far, he's been quiet. He's strange, but quiet, and that's all that matters for now. We'll keep tabs on him, though, and I plan on talking to him this evening. Don't worry about that."

"I assume you know what he did."

"Sure." In all probability, so.

He was seeing me through to the outer office by then, where the old secretary sat bashing away at her computer as she had ever since the last ice age ended, it seemed. It felt so much better to go. I felt as if I'd gotten off easy, and it was nice to know there was a chance of surviving Saporta.

Keeping that in mind, I went back to death row to start another day. There was paperwork to be read and written, there were floors to be mopped, there were meals to be served, there were a hundred details to be seen to. But mostly there was waiting - in prison there's always plenty of that, so much it never gets done. Waiting for Bob to walk the line, waiting for Bert McCracken to arrive with his curled lip and appeals, waiting to begin that talk with Iero, and, most importantly, waiting for Gabe Saporta to disappear out of my life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iero turned, tilting his head up at me. "Tell him," he said. "You know he won't be able to go to heaven after that fucking thrill kill."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half of my work didn't post properly and I just realized?? So yeah, I recently just added the second-half to this.  
> Note to self: check your work, not only prior, but after posting, too.

A _kerchonk_ , _kerchook_ , _kerchook_ sound was coming down the corridor, growing louder and louder. There were two possible answers: A) Joe Trohman was rolling in the trolley to serve dinner to the prisoners on time, something that rarely happened; or B) the goddamn air filter was broken again, which meant I'd personally have to play Handy Mandy and fix it myself. It was annoying. Sometimes, I wondered why Leto deduced it was a good idea to keep that thing around, despite it being broken and therefore not helping with the low air quality at Mountainview. Perhaps having one was better than having none at all, but still, I'd considered it as just another one of God's mysteries.

In my luck, it was no broken anything. However, with Trohman entering death row for the daily meal delivery, I was quickly reminded of the talk I needed to do with Bob. He was going on the chair in a few months, and as early as it may have seemed then, the clock was ticking, and his time was getting closer. At that point, Bob's fear was obvious and blooming inside him like a poison flower, and as a part of my job, we talked. We could've talked in the daytime, but it never was too good with the shouts and conversation coming from the exercise yard, the telephone that'd ring every five minutes, and the occasional yell of a guard for someone to put down that pick or grab up that hoe. It got a little better after four, and it proceeded to get better still after six, all the way until eight. Past that, then they were in their own world, getting ready for the watches of the night and imagining how the cap would feel when it was clamped to the tops of their heads. 

But, I got Bob at a good time. He told me about his girlfriend and the lodge they'd built together in Montana, the old sign shop he used to own, his hobby of carpentering. Those days had been his happiest, apparently.

"Gerard," he said. "If someone sincerely repents of what they did wrong, is it possible that they might get to go back to the time that was happiest for them and live there forever, you think?"

"I think so," I answered, though I never did. 

"Could that be what heaven is like?"

"Certainly." _I hope not._

"And would I get to experience all that I've missed out on?" His sick eyes sparkled, appearing more ghoulish than what I'd thought was possible. "Like the peppermints that I didn't get to buy while I was here?"

"Of course, Bob. Of course you will." I crouched down so I could look him straight in the eye, and said: "You'll get every flavor of peppermint there is, I'm sure." No matter how many people on Earth have hated and hate me,  I hope being a pretentious asshole was not one of their reasons. Hell, even after all the jibber-jabbing he does, I still couldn't bare to crush that damned twinkle.

"Positive?" 

I nodded, smiling in a way I hoped would reassure him. He looked at me for a while, a cautious look etched across his face, but in a matter of time, he just couldn't help himself from beaming a bit too much. There was a toothy grin that grew wider by the second, and I, out of all people, was relieved and grateful for it. Irrefutably, he was thinking about that lodge, the scent of those sweet Grade A peppermints, the way the water was so pure that it felt like your tongue was cut every time you drank. I had no doubt as to what he was thinking, but I also had no doubt that he'd be walking in a warmer fire soon. After learning about matters eternal from the noble seat of my mother's knee, you think you'd know all there is to know. And from what I got the lucked out and got to learn, your sins were to be paid for. This was what had haunted me so much as a kid and made me even more religious than Jehovah's Witnesses, so it only gets more cynical when you look back at my profession. Here I was, lying through my teeth and keeping my mouth from flying open with objections to his flawed logic, but by all means, in a time so modernized, religion doesn't have any more value than a rag doll in a thrift shop to most. Religion doesn't help you gain a sufficient amount of cash to sustain yourself, and besides, Bob was pleased. Under scrutiny, what I did could've been seen as a relatively good deed. I was giving someone a slice of joy no matter how unsatisfying it was, and even though I was going to end him, and end them all alike. Also, his assurance resulted with good behavior on execution day on my part, and a lack of worrying on his. It was a win-win situation. He'd be looking forward to better times, the report of the execution would be fulfilling to read - there was a chance I'd even get a little boost in my salary if I whined to Leto enough, and therefore, I assumed my work was complete.

Oh, how wrong I was.

A snicker had broken through the quietness, and Bob's smile instantly faded. He was never the most calculated man on Earth, far from it, but he could easily tell by the glimpse of things whether a situation was taking a negative route or not. Unfortunately I never had much of this talent, but I suppose I did well at following others' leads when it was required. So, when Bob whipped around, I did the same, but I think I was more surprised than he was. I didn't expect a laugh from someone who decided to shut themselves up and out ever since their arrival, and neither did I expect one so dry and sarcastic. 

"Would you mind putting your attention somewhere else?" I stood up, one hand on the bar of Bob's cell, the other on the baton in my pocket.

"I would, but I can't. I honestly can't."

"And why is that?"  

Iero turned, tilting his head up at me. "Tell him," he said. "You know he won't be able to go to heaven after that fucking thrill kill."

*******  

It took me a little while to comprehend what was happening, and what had actually, already happened. I think the pace of things was getting to me, because my head was spinning a good lot, and I felt like I had no control nor impact over anything whatsoever. You know that feeling, that kind you get after just riding one of those weird, loopy roller-coasters at the amusement park; you don't know where the fuck you're heading, and the entire ride, once you're done with it, seems like a blur. 

The realization of all that around me only hit me when the events had met their end on bad terms. If I remember correctly, Bob had to be taken to the rec room for some extreme cooling down, Frank was upset and sent to the solitary cell for the night, and I was called in for a small chat with Leto. Jared didn't say much other than the fact that I had to make sure Bryar didn't freak the fuck out again, that Frank didn't open his mouth and fuck around again, blah blah, and that it was really for my sake. I knew that it was more for his personal sake than mine, but I nodded, anyway. There was no need to add more tenseness to the air; it was already so thick that you could slice it.

For once, I wished Jared's lack of wisdom wasn't so bad. He could have had as much professionalism and be as suave as he wanted, but without being the slightest bit more wise, the advice he gave was bullshit. What was worse was that most of the time, the advice he'd given was his best; it's only natural then to wonder how good his best could get on those off days of his. Ludicrous might just be the word for it, as it is for everyone, everything in and at Mountainview State Penitentiary.

By the time I managed to quit stalling and put my foot back on the block, the frown on my face had evolved into a scowl. Many things were the cause of that, and undeniably, Iero was the biggest one. I was most irked by him - and keep in mind that another million and one reasons where behind my agitation also - because there was just a lot of crap that happened that didn't exactly need to happen, had he acted otherwise. Hell, he wouldn't even had to be in there at all, "had he acted otherwise!" But such a thought was only snort-worthy. It was, much like my job, just the strangest, most sardonic little thing on earth. Really, we shouldn't have been labelled as guards - or in my case, block superintendent - because half of our time was frittered away acting as a caretaker for the condemned. No matter how much I say it, I can never stress that enough. And as for guarding, it was nothing more than a side project to us. Of course, all the careers we had to take during our time on the block was like purgatory, but I think this is where this particular story draws itself to a closing.

The end was signaled by the ding-a-linging of the wall clock before me, and my contemplating was cut short. Looking up at it, hanging up there with Jesus and dust, the volume seemed just more unnerving. It was quiet, too quiet for my standards - and that cell down there, too, was concerning. Abruptly, I remembered about Frank Iero, and I couldn't bare to have him dead before his DOE was even handed down. If that just so occurred, the next person to lay their ass on that chair would've been me.

I walked down the corridor and pressed my ear against the restraint room door. There was no sound, which didn't help with the anxiety gnawing at me at all, and I knew extra buoying up was required. Perhaps a conversation to tell me I wasn't going to be roasted any sooner than Bob was what I really desired. Besides, who am I to deny that I was nothing more than chicken shit? Because just imagining my legs clamped was enough to have me pull out the key ring, unlock the door, and step inside faster than you could've ordered me to. It was also crazy, actually; I was too worried about one fault to notice the other - you weren't allowed to leave the duty desk unattended - but what I find even more bewildering was that I was prepared to stay in that cell for a while. I mean, a huge part of me was significantly angry at him, that was that, but there were larger issues that had to be dealt with, I wasn't the type to hold on to grudges, and the other [part of me] was so busy praying to God nothing else was going to unravel to get my panties in a bunch. I wasn't like myself all that much.

The door, when I slammed it shut behind me, echoed like a scream through a hollow cave. It resonated through the block - and even more so since that block was so small - and startled Iero, causing him to whip around so quickly that he nearly fell over.

I reached a hand out to steady him, but without even a thank you, he shook himself away from my grip and retreated to the back wall in a hurry. Respectfully, I stepped back. "Is all well?" I asked.

He faced away. "If all was well, do you think I'd be here?" 

There was a time when I was good at handling such situations, but for some reason, the older I got, the worse I got at it. It was pitiful how even then at my mid-twenties, I was already starting to lose that capability. I've lost a bit of the elasticity in my skin and motivation over time as well, but I managed to receive grey hairs and a little bit of fat in return. Time flies by with the wind I tell you. Just about how many gusts had I stood there like a dumbbell for, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water? But at last, I croaked to him what I knew. "Make the best of what you have," I said. "If life gives you lemons, all you've gotta do is make lemonade." Every pick-me-up I could steal from Ray.

"But I'm not here for that," I added. "Least not now. Currently, I'm here to lay down some ground rules."

He gave me a nod as if to acknowledge my presence, but didn't reply. I didn't need it, anyway, and continued.

"You need to know that this is no Comfort Inn," I said. "I believe you know yourself that this is far from it, and here, we run on rules and guidelines. You cannot do whatever you want, you cannot get whatever you like, unless we believe you actually need to do it and need to receive it. Understand?"

It took him a while, but he answered nevertheless. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

"Good," I said. "Sorry, but this is how this place functions." My tone was harsh, but I needed to display some form of authority. A ruthless demeanor tended to work in giving off some kind of feel of supremacy, though I should've just rendered it useless. False dominance was unhelpful, in my circumstance.

He scoffed. "No need to be sorry. There's worse, as you might know."

My hand, reaching out for the knob, stopped in its tracks. I was on my way out, but this had piqued my curiosity. Supposedly, it was this type of teenage angst that soon led him to having a body count - you hear it all the time in the news, from a line in a controversial cult film to reality - and it was fascinating to me as to what had caused him to state such a thing. It was like his story, his life prior to imprisonment; it was all going to be so visible to the naked eye.

"Worse?" I repeated.

"Yes, it's shit," he snarled. "Shouldn't you be aware?"

I blinked. I didn't realize that kind of response was even available when I'd decided to check up on him. If I did, I would've left him without being so overwhelmingly perturbed. You could even go so far as to say I would've left him for dead.

"If you're going to turn the tables on me, do it sometime else," I told him. "I have errands to run, and we can talk sometime later if you really feel like it." 

"Talk? Talking doesn't up the 'better valve.' And take a look around; we're not in a mental ward." He sounded incredulous, like what he said was washing his own self over with disbelief. "You could act like you know things in front of others, but not me."

I didn't know what he was doing, what I was doing, but it all seemed very surreal. A coy smile on his lips said one thing, the look in his eyes screaming another. Whatever the hell it was, it was tugging at my nerves so hard I thought I'd burst. 

"Frank," I said, trying my best to place a restraint order on my temper. "What are you getting at?" 

"Don't worry, it's nothing." He waved a dismissing hand at me, and surprisingly, started to laugh. "You don't have to patently care. I'd have to thank you at lengths for that already, and really, who _would_  be foolish enough to care? Might as well put me on the chair in a short while, because even the media would've lost their interest in me by now."

My brain was very unwilling to cooperate. It controlled every other limb and muscle, yet my mouth has a habit of running thirty miles or nothing per minute. When you want it to get its jaw up and speaking, it stays as silent as a lamb. When you want to keep that fucker closed, it's like it's not even yours. "You can't pay for talk with that empty wallet of yours!" it teases.

"I was in a bad state in to begin with, and all I've gotten over the years is worse!" he said, bitterly. "I'm too desperate and futile, and I'm suffocating here. I don't know whether desperation or suffocation would win me over in the end. And who'd care? Who in over a billion people would care?" Iero chuckled, but tears were standing in his eyes, waiting to fall when he fell into pieces. It was like the more he laughed, the more he cracked. And watching him while it all was happening, I myself was going to break with him, sooner or later.

Quicker than I could've imagined, he was a hysterical, sobbing mess on the floor. Bryar's poison had finally leeched on to him, I guessed, though it was hard to produce high quality estimates when everything was so rocky. But hey, sometimes the lord just takes the wheel and drives you headfirst into a ditch. Leave the rest to his mighty hands; sit back and enjoy what's left of the ride, whether it's pleasant or not. 

My breathing was impaired, my heart rate increased, and every element was being blown up to dangerous proportions. I felt like I was trapped in an over-inflated balloon, threatened with a needle. It was going to pop any minute - any minute, now, and the needle was only getting closer. 

"I -I," I stammered. My throat was constricting. "The amount of those who do is far past my knowledge, but I know I care. You'll find it unbelievable, but I do. I genuinely do."

The world stopped spinning. I expected the floor to cave in and wash me off the face of the planet, building a gaping vacancy for the sake of much-needed segregation for the two of us, but only nothingness came and went. My mind was no better than a slate wiped clean, the room's temperature was rising rapidly, you could've dropped a pin on the floor and it would've rung through your ears like the Armageddon. Only heaven knows just how truthful my words were. Perhaps I spoke because I wanted to. Perhaps, because I had to. Different why's branch out afterward, and who could've figured how scared shitless I must've been to have instantaneously flown out as fast as my legs could carry me? It was all a matter of quandaries, and mistakes I still have yet to forget.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stopped in his tracks, letting the quietness of death row fill in the void for awhile. "Read it anyway," he said at last, almost hesitantly. "Maybe there's something of greater shock value in this one, a bit more specifics on why things went the way they did." As he went through the door, he added, like a minder: "And hey, don't tell me I never helped you out."
> 
> Once he disappeared, I leaned in, and started to read. The lump in my throat was only getting bigger, and boy, did I hope it was fucking cancerous.

Is there a chance that your knees will go weak if you've placed too many problems upon your shoulders? You know, like heavyweights, piling on top you as the years pass by. At this time in my life, I can only guess that I've carried too much, because my legs no longer steady me the same way they used to. I still have some of my balance, but the decreasing lack of it is making things just a bit more sour, and on top of that, there are now countless chips on my shoulder and problems I have yet to put down. But, to the point, it was like all the load from the days ahead of me decided to jump on my back there and then. Frank was one issue, yes, but like cancer, it multiplied into millions. There was no way for me to regain control, and so, I was trying to avoid things, like I'd forgotten. Of course, if you knew me well enough, you'd know that I couldn't ever force myself to forget. Unlike particular individuals who can ransack their brain and sort through the files, I was stuck with them until they were rugged up and kicked to the back of my mind. And I'd then trip over them like a shoe in the dark.

Hell, I couldn't even dare to be the one to bring Iero back to his cell. The closer I got to my office, the more my heart raced. I felt like I was going to collapse, and I suppose it would've been better if I did. It was a cheap way of running away from what I was responsible for, though that only made me appear more like a criminal. When you've handled such kinds of people for so long, you slowly turn into them in one way or another, I suppose, but nonetheless, I made it to my desk and sat down. Patting my face with my hands, I could feel the heat radiating off me. Maybe I was coming down with a fever. Maybe it was just my imagination? Neither sounded too charming. 

Truth be told, I don't know why I was overcome with such a feeling. Theoretically, I had nothing to fear; not Frank (who could possibly be afraid of their own charge?), not Leto (he'd lecture me, but that was about it), and by extension, not the probability of having to seek out a new profession to rake in some pay; absolutely nothing. Realistically, however, I was affected by the thought of disappointment. That's what I think, anyway. It was like I was lost in a maze filled with a thousand screaming children in every which way, and they were all bellowing at me. "This is idiocy, absolutely idiocy!" they yelled. "You incompetent fool, you're so bold as to face someone whom you've just thrown cold water on? He was looking for some kind of solace, yet you had the heart to pay no heed!" Their words were like hands on my neck, grip tightening until I stopped breathing.

For how long I sat there, staring into blank space and trapped behind my own mentality gateway, I have no clue. Everything inside my head was just a frenzied mess, and I was at a loss of ideas. If the circumstances were different, I doubt I'd even come close to being so dumbstruck, but they weren't, and there weren't any circumstances at all to toy with. My ruthless overlook as the block superintendent was being washed away by an inmate I barely knew. It was foolish. Had Gabe seen me, he'd laugh so hard his prosthetic head blows right off. You don't get to see a grown man almost brought to tears of defeat by a tiny, petty situation on the daily, and he'd consider that five star entertainment. To him, the world was nothing more than a film, and he was nothing more than its critic. As for the lot of us, we were only fictional characters, making a brief appearance in a scene or two. We were paid through the nose, could be erased from the script with ease, had little backstory - that was how we were seen. Everything was depicted as fiction through the eyes of Gabriel Saporta. The put-on-a-pedestal and praise, the cover-your-children's-eyes, the "I will love you by giving you unnecessary protection" - those were the ways he'd been raised, and they were all factors that contributed to the grown up version of him. See, even being connected could have its own cons, the same way being unconnected does. Could you trade cash for respect? Your father's triumph for your own victory? Connections: what are the benefits if there are any at all? I could certainly write a novel about this and it'd be in the bestsellers list. I could be the next J.K Rowling, the next Charles Dickens, John Steinbeck - 

"Gerard, sir, are you in there?"

I jumped violently, the silence and my train of thought both savagely disrupted. How dare I'd let myself get so disengaged from reality that I had to be snapped back into it! Collecting myself, I asked, "Who is it?" 

There was a gloomy silence before the visitor croaked: "Misha, sir." 

Wiping my face with my sleeve, I told him to enter. I was doing a nice job perspiring, alright. They could've used my sweat to water the prison gardens, the warden's garden, even their own gardens, for all I know. The pressure was building up on me, and despite that I hadn't moved a muscle since I got here, I was as tired as an old worn out shoe, and there was a fat lump sitting at the base of my throat. To great extents, that case whipped me out of shape. 

Slowly, the door creaked open and I came face to face with Misha Collins. For a minute or two, he stood behind it [the door], his eyes darting around the room. There was a worried knit between his eyebrows as he gave things a glance, and it continued to worsen when he caught sight of me. It was like he was expecting me to open up a floor trap. Perhaps _I_   looked as if I was about to fall into a trap of my own, though such a foul expression I should've known better to conceal. Standing up, I smiled and extended a hand, hoping to God it would make up for that. "Sorry for the wait," I said. My legs felt shaky. "How you've been?" 

He shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "I've been good, though let me tell you, the weather's getting to me." We shook hands and took our seats. "You won't mind if I have to request a few days off, won't you?" 

Ha, I reckoned that was to be brought up. It was expected, and could've almost been considered as an inside joke between the two of us. May him begging for a couple of days off be our always. "Why not? I'll give you a lifetime off, if you'd like," I quipped, knees still wobbling just a bit.

Collins grinned at that. "Gerard, you never fail to impress me with your rudimentary wit," he said, and gave me a mini, contented applause. "I think you'd be better off as a professional cynic, but you know I'm not wasting my time here just to tell you what you already know." If there was one thing he was absurdly good at, that would be possessing as much hypocrisy as three fourths of the Republican party. Therefore, he was just as primitive as I was, and alongside that had a brilliant tendency of underestimating my capabilities as well. Snapping at it whenever possible quickly became a hobby of mine. 

"'Last time I checked, I don't have the mental capacity of a day-old fetus." I raised my index finger and pointed it at his chest. "And you being in here is a waste of time, so what's the matter?" 

The lighthearted look on his face was replaced with another so grave, and I had a clue of just what that 'matter' was. See, Misha wasn't ever the solemn one out of the bunch (the silly goose is more like it), so him being all serious just wasn't normal. I decided it's time I shut myself up from any more remarks, but neither did I press him to tell. I was unsure whether I wanted to know all the details myself, but I gave him my full attention still, waiting to hear.

"Well, I don't know how I should approach this, but currently, Frank's out of the restraint room -" The first time that day, I could breathe. A large boulder was lifted off me, and I was a whole lot more eased. Wait, why was I even nervous to begin with? Oh Gerard, stop exaggerating. Nothing bad could possibly be said next. "- Though there's more I came here just to tell you about." Oh joy. Just too suddenly, that load came back, accompanied by a nauseating feeling in the pit of my stomach and the rise of my blood pressure, like the water level in a devastating tsunami. (Note to self: don't come to conclusions too early, Gerard.) Both increased to dangerous measures as he slid over the clipboard in his lap, without a word. 

I looked down at it, then up at him and back at it once more. My guesses about what was being handed to me was far off, let me tell you. Once again, I was hit with relief and felt like the most blessed little thing in the world. "It's all articles about Iero!" I exclaimed, and truth be told, I don't know if it was the good kind or not. The excitement that is so clearly apparent in statements such "We're going to Disneyland this weekend!" or "My brother's going to law school!" had probably been anything but visible in my case. Perhaps, it was one of the worst times to present anything related to Iero to me. Surely, it'd beat out a lot of other things I'd imagined to see, but when you're trying to get things off your mind, there's always a someone who'll never fail to make all those things sprout legs and stick for days, like chewing gum on the bottom of your shoe. Did I mention it was disgusting to scrape off, too?

"I know what I brought in," he chuckled, and used the arms of the chair to get himself up and prepared to leave. 

"Why'd you go through the trouble of gathering all this?"  I asked immediately, scanning the pages. "I already read what I managed to grab from his file."

He stopped in his tracks, letting the quietness of death row fill in the void for awhile. "Read it anyway," he said at last, almost hesitantly. "Maybe there's something of greater shock value in this one, a bit more specifics on why things went the way they did." As he went through the door, he added, like a minder: "And hey, don't tell me I never helped you out."

Once he disappeared, I leaned in, and started to read. The lump in my throat was only getting bigger, and boy, did I hope it was fucking cancerous.

*******

Essex County was like a speck of dust on the mantle, having shared the same amount of blandness with the frowning clouds above it. 

There's no surprise to that, I guess. A dollhouse sized perimeter, lack of color and work opportunities, a puny and declining population - it lacked quite a lot in comparison to the cities that laid along the coast. Presumably, that was what drove away most of their people, and stopped others from wanting to enter. But, the crime records that sit on the police department shelves were probably enough to make them shiver their way elsewhere, too. Despite that the county truly could not come close as a match to their neighbors, they surely measured up when it came down to the matter of crimes and criminals, crackheads and skag-smokers. A nice, solid figure would stare back at you if you had the guts to look through a couple of files and into the history. Each category was even neatly arranged in single-filed lines for most of the time! And that's just how it is for the rest of America, though the lines are often crooked and don't connect at all.

In Iero's case, the lines were so jumbled up they appeared to be a pencil sketch of a ball of yarn. Look in every direction possible and they would be all you'd see, never seeming to have an endpoint. They might just toggle your brain the same way they had to mine, but the particular articles Misha had stapled for me was helping me straighten a couple of things out - or, at least they somewhat did, with the bits of more developed information scattering across the floor.

One thing I remember most profoundly was his parents' divorce (it had not been mentioned in the file I'd found in the prison library). Like any other family, they had their troubles and deduced a long-term separation would simply do both of them good. His mother then remarried, she gained full custody of him, and in spite that it wasn't a hoot of a time, it was significantly better than the last few months of his life.

A year after the split, his mother had died due to a fatal incident. The tragedy left a great impact on him as well his stepfather, who had begun drinking heavily on the daily to cope with the loss. It wasn't long until it became a large problem, which only continued to worsen after he refused to garner the help he needed. That left Iero faced with negligence from his guardian, and later on he'd come to terms with being verbally and physically abused, too. The more his stepfather drank, the more aggressive he became, and it was inside that broken home that had caused Frank to break. He dreaded for an escape to somewhere else, somehow, but he could tell that the possibility was too slim to even see. Hopelessness, guilt, and at last a burning rage - afters years of simply storing it and storing it, like a can of Coca-cola kicked around for too long, he exploded. And in the worst way possible.

As the days grew longer and the pains ached harder, he began feeling the need to witness his stepfather's death. The thought was morbid, but it just kept brewing inside of him. Iero had learned to resent and hate his old man by then, so when given the chance to put an end to things once and for all, he took it quicker than you could've thought. That night, when his stepdad had been asleep on the couch, he'd grabbed a switchblade knife and stabbed him in the back, taking out all his anger. He then made a vague and frantic call to the cops the next day, pretending he'd just arrived home to find the crime scene the way it was. There was no denying that his claims were very well asserted and that his seemingly flawless alibi made him almost appear clean, but the solidified evidence soon ratted him out (blood-stained clothing proven to be his had been discovered in the trash; his fingerprints littered the knife and its tip was planted so deep inside his body for it to not be the actual murder weapon; even an eye-witness stated he had seen Iero enter the household five minutes prior to his stepfather's time of death), and he confessed during questioning. "It was too late," he said. "I tried to stop it, but it was too late." Those would be the same words he'd utter here in Mountainview, after his conviction of first degree murder and other felonies. 

Naturally, I felt a twisted sense of sympathy for him, the same kind most guards feel for their charges. Simply, the electric chair never burned that evil force inside of them, the drugs we inject don't kill it - it was just the empty shells of those husks that were left behind for us to sentence. Of course, there was a moment when it was really sympathy, coming from the bottom of my heart, but it was incredibly difficult for me at the same time to believe that the treatment he received in the end was injustice. As I put away the file, I made it my personal mission to dig up more dirt about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally updated. This is a miracle!  
> Anyway, I've been super busy over the summer with volunteer hours, etc. and I also spent a good amount of my time re-editing my last chapter, which was very rushed and overall a mess. That was back when I was trying to update at least once every two weeks, and the only thing I can say is:  
> A) I am so sorry for doing that! I promise I will try to update chapters written to the best of my potential, and quicker, too; and  
> B) Enjoy! This is the most important of all.


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